


on the record

by polkadot



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-29
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2018-02-06 15:42:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1863318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polkadot/pseuds/polkadot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven different ways the first gay ATP player could come out.</p><p>(The unnamed players in each section are different people. Some are written with actual players in mind. Some are made up.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	on the record

i.

It happens when they’re filming the little “Road to Roland Garros” spot. They’re on the way back to the hotel, and he’s tired with that happy buzzy glow you get after a long but good practice. His second round match is tomorrow, and he thinks he has a chance; he’ll give it his best shot, anyway, and that’s the most you can ask for.

The genial driver asks him where he sees himself in five years, and he thinks about it, running his finger over the edge of the seatbelt. He could joke and say “the new Rafa Nadal,” but hubris has come back to bite him in the butt before. He could be boring and say “hopefully playing my best tennis and winning some matches,” but that’s so colourless. And going outside the box and saying “driving a flying car” or “the only player still eating gluten” would probably just cause confusion and get him a reputation for being weird. 

In the end, he shrugs, with a little smile. “Five years? I’d like to have a family, but five years is too soon for that. I’ll still be on the tour, and we travel so much, it wouldn’t be fair to the kids.” Listening to the words, he hopes nobody reads anything into it – he’s not criticising the fathers on tour, he just doesn’t want to do it himself. He better not get a “so you’re saying Federer isn’t fair to his kids?” question in his next presser.

But the driver/interviewer is on another tack. “So you’re single?”

“Yeah,” he says, looking out at the Paris scenery for a moment. “It’s hard to really date on tour, you know? Most guys are starting their careers at 23, they don’t want to tag along all over the world. And I don’t want a long-distance relationship.”

He realises what he’s said when the driver blinks at him in the rear-view mirror, his eyes wide. 

It’s not something he wants to hide, though. He’s just never been asked the question before; he’s been out to everyone who knows him since he was 7 years old, so he doesn’t really have the skill to talk around questions and obfuscate the way the closeted players he knows do. And he doesn’t want to. He may be single and not really looking at the moment (he’s joked to people on more than one occasion that his favourite racquet is his real significant other), but that doesn’t mean being gay isn’t a part of him. He’s not going to be an activist – for one thing, he doesn’t have the time, and for another, it’s not really his personality – but if it means something to people to have a gay player in the top 50, then maybe it’s time to be clear.

He sees when the driver decides he must have misheard him, or mistranslated. “So,” the driver says, attempting to rescue the situation from the slightly awkward pause, “what do you look for in a relationship, then?”

“A sense of humour,” he says, immediately, because that’s really the most important thing. Life is weird shit sometimes, and if you can’t laugh at it – and at yourself – then you’re going to have trouble. “Not an early bird. I’d dump the coffee pot on his head. Someone who’s active, and loves the outdoors. Someone who’s really loyal and has a big heart. Oh, and he has to want kids, because I want at least two.” He looks up at the driver and grins. “What do you think, is my list too long?”

The driver still looks surprised, but then grins back before looking into one of the cameras. “You hear that, fellows? He’s hot, single, and wants kids! Snap him up!”

After he’s dropped off back at the hotel, he pulls his phone out. “Uh,” he says, when his agent picks up. “I might have done something.”

His agent sighs, but it’s longsuffering, and he heads into the hotel with a smile on his face.

ii.

One more point. 

He breathes deeply. At the net, his partner crouches, flashing a hand signal behind his back to announce he’s going to cross. Across the net, the Americans stare him down. He wonders if they can sense his nerves, but really they must be written all over his face. He’s never been in this position before, never been one point away from a Grand Slam. One more point.

He forces his mind to calm, and draws up to serve.

The serve goes in – his partner crosses – the ball comes back and he hits a forehand – the shorter American tracks it down – his partner still at the net, all coiled energy – he hits another forehand – the taller American takes it this time – his partner explodes, poaching with style, the volley beautiful and final, and he’s falling to his knees as it bounces the second time.

They’ve won. They’ve won the _Australian Open_.

Still on his knees, he grins up at his partner, shatteringly happy. He can still feel the slight tweak in his ankle from the second set, and he thinks his thigh might cramp in another minute or two, but for now all that matters is that they’re Grand Slam champions, and that’s just so wonderful, so blissfully beautifully wonderful. 

His partner reaches down a hand to help him back up, pulling him into a brief fierce hug before they head to the net to shake hands. The Americans look disappointed, but they’re nice enough to seem genuine in their congratulations. The umpire was a bit of a jerk during the match, but he shakes his hand with a good grace anyway, because nothing can harsh his mood right now, nothing.

They stand in the middle of the court and wave to the cheering crowd. 

In the haze of joy, he drops his head to his partner’s shoulder, grinning up at him, everything he can’t say shining in his eyes. They’re champions, _Grand Slam champions_ , and they’ve done it together. It’s everything he’s wanted since he was a little boy, and more. Even if he’s in a car crash tomorrow, even if the ankle tweak turns out to be something more serious, even if he never picks up a tennis racquet again in his life, he’ll have this. Always.

“I love you, dolthead,” his partner says in their own language, hushed and intimate, too far away from any microphones to be picked up. His partner’s usually the more reserved of the two of them – the media likes to use the word “dour” – but now he’s grinning too, the laughter shining in the corner of his eyes. 

Later, he won’t be able to explain it, except that in that moment it feels like the most natural thing in the world to slip a hand behind his partner’s neck and pull him down into a kiss, right there in the middle of Rod Laver Arena.

(He’s dimly aware that the applause of the crowd has turned into a surprised hum, but he doesn’t really care. All he cares about is the man in his arms.)

When they break apart again, his partner’s eyebrows are raised. “We’re doing this?” he says, then laughs, a broad bark of sound, the smile lighting up his face. “You didn’t think we should talk about it?”

“No,” he says, irrepressible, shrugging. “You wanted me to say, when we win a Grand Slam I might get overcome with happiness and kiss you? I think you would’ve hit me with a racquet for jinxing things.”

His partner looks sceptical (which is unfair, because that reasoning is undeniable), but then ruins the odd hotness of his sceptical expression by sighing and leaning down for another kiss. 

They’re about to give him a Grand Slam trophy, but he’s got his partner in his arms. (His _boyfriend_ , and in the presser he can actually _say that_. The thought sends a shiver down his spine.) The world can wait a minute or two.

They’re Grand Slam champions, after all.

iii.

“Aren’t you…” The cute boy at the bar is frowning at him, line between his eyes.

He feels a moment of panic. This is not good. He should’ve listened to his own better judgment, but Tommy’d razzed him, said he was in no way famous enough to get recognised in a random gay bar, however unworthily huge his ego was. And he’d really wanted to go dancing, and this bar was crowded enough that he’d thought he could just slide along without being noticed. Obviously he was wrong.

“Whoever you’re thinking,” he says, pasting a media-trained smile on his face, “I just look like him.”

The cute boy purses his lips. “No, you’re that guy. That tennis player. You know, the hot one with the great butt.”

“Uh, thanks,” he says, trying to back away. Tommy can get the drinks. “But I’m really not…”

“Can I get a selfie with you?” the cute boy says. “My roommate’s a big fan of yours. He watched your match with that Argentinian guy last month, and I swear, he spent at least half the time paying attention to your tennis.”

“And the rest of the time looking at my butt?” he asks, resigned.

The cute boy grins, his teeth white. “Well, maybe that was me.”

“I’m actually not…” he starts, trying to extricate himself from the situation again. There’s a phone in the boy’s hand, and one picture of him in a gay bar – particularly dressed like he is – would make for some awkward explanations if it leaked to the media. And this dude looks like the type to have an Instagram.

The cute boy shrugs. “It’s okay,” he says, although he sounds disappointed. 

“We’ve got to go,” he says, when he finds Tommy (who is discussing the best vegan restaurants in New York City with a girl in a shimmery dress and her girlfriend).

Tommy looks him up and down. “I thought you wanted to dance.”

“I did,” he says, smoothing his shirt restlessly. “But a guy at the bar recognised me.”

“Excuse us, ladies,” Tommy says. When they’re alone, he adds, “So?”

“So, we have to leave before our pictures go up on Instagram and we have to call a presser to announce that we’re a) not gay and b) not boyfriends.”

Tommy frowns, with almost the same expression as the cute guy at the bar. “Look. We could always play the ‘we went to a gay bar to score hot bisexual chicks’ card.”

“That’s true,” he starts, feeling relieved, but Tommy cuts him off.

“I wasn’t finished. We _could_ play that card. Or you could grow some balls and own up to the fact that you really want to go back to that bar and get that cute guy’s phone number.”

“How did you…”

Tommy shrugs. “I know your type. Also, he’s been eyefucking your back for the last five minutes.”

He almost turns to look, but controls himself. “But… tennis…”

“Nobody’s going to have a problem with it,” Tommy says, before draining the last of his beer. “If they did, I’d be happy to squash them for you. But nobody will. Everyone likes you, and face it, everyone in the locker room knows already. Worst you’ll get is some annoying press questions. But Wawrinka’s answered questions about that tattoo for years now. Annoying press questions happen to everyone. You’ll live.”

Thing is, he’s right. The questions will be annoying, but he has no good reason to keep avoiding them. And it _is_ cramping his style.

“Okay,” he tells the cute guy, when he arrives back at the bar. “You still want a selfie?”

“Yes,” the cute guy says, smiling, already reaching for his phone.

“Just one condition,” he says, as he leans their heads together, acutely aware of how clinging his shirt is, of the blue eyeshadow on his lids, of the darkness of his eyeliner, of the glitter in his hair. 

“What’s that?” the cute guy asks, slipping a hand around his hips but (so far) resisting the urge to grab his ass.

He smiles for the selfie, then turns, already smiling. “Dance with me.”

iv.

The reporter he’s meeting for coffee is late. And his coach is off on a morning run. 

Neither is a problem. He’s a night owl, but he doesn’t mind mornings, particularly if there’s coffee involved. He sips his and reads the newspaper.

The table bounces as a tall Frenchman drops precipitously into the chair across from him. “I hate morning matches. Can we just start all the matches at 1pm and go from there?”

“That might be a problem when it gets dark,” he points out, logically, folding his paper. When his boyfriend’s around, he doesn’t get any reading done. There isn’t time.

His boyfriend shrugs, blearily breaking apart a croissant. “Lights on every court. Or make people take less time between points. 10-second time violation rule.”

Rafa would have to retire from tennis. “Get elected to the players’ council, then. Sounds like you have some bold new ideas.”

“Go fuck yourself,” his boyfriend says, wrinkling his nose. “You know I hate all that diplomatic shit. You handle it.”

He laughs. “You’re cranky this morning.”

His boyfriend sighs and rubs his eyes. “Okay, I’ll rephrase. Go fuck yourself, or let me help.”

“Let you help with the bold new ideas about time violations, or let you help fuck me?”

“Please,” his boyfriend says, stealing a sip of his coffee, “you know me.”

He does. Unfortunately, they both have matches today, which means they have to conserve energy. Afterwards is an entirely different matter…

“Seriously, though,” his boyfriend says, his mouth full, “I’ll totally blow you if you use your influence to convince the schedulers to give me an afternoon match next time.”

“I don’t have that kind of -” he starts, before it registers that the sound he just heard was a reporter dropping his notebook.

“Sorry I’m late,” the reporter says, into the awkward silence. 

It’s too much to hope he didn’t understand. Even if the French flew over his head, his boyfriend had been using a lewd hand gesture. Because of course he had.

“Uh, would you like some coffee?” he tries anyway.

The reporter sits down, after retrieving the dropped notebook. His face says he most definitely did understand and fully comprehend. Perhaps they could play it off as a joke. Or ignore it. Everybody just ignore it and pretend that didn’t happen.

His boyfriend steals a slice of bacon off his plate. “You doing a story?”

“Yes,” the reporter says, still sounding a little awkward, but looking increasingly comfortable with the situation. “Do you want to add anything?” [Well, his French makes it more “Would you be wanting to be adding something?”, but points for trying.]

“Try to ask him entirely new questions,” his boyfriend says, grinning. “Ask a question he’s answered recently, and you lose a point. You start with, hmm, 10 points.”

The reporter drinks his coffee. Then he says, “Forgive me if rude, but are you together?”

So much for ignoring it.

“That’s certainly a new question,” his boyfriend says, his eyes sparkling.

“You’re a terror and I don’t know why I put up with you,” he says, too quickly for the reporter to follow the French. “Also, stop trying to hold my hand under the table, your fingers are all greasy.”

“You put up with me because you love me,” his boyfriend says, unruffled, and blows him a kiss.

He sighs. 

“I do not ask on the record,” the reporter says. The notebook is closed. “I only wonder. This would be explaining many things.”

He looks back at his boyfriend, who’s left off eyeing the remainder of his bacon in favour of smiling at him, his eyes softer than his breezy exterior would suggest. 

It’s been nearly two years, and they’ve gone from the rosy flush of a new relationship to a comfortable easiness that never fails to make him feel at home. Their path hasn’t always been easy; injury’s reared its head, keeping them apart for months at a time, and the psychological toll of a lingering injury can be difficult. But they’ve stayed together, and grown closer, facing both troubles and triumphs in their turn. They’re partners now, not just lovers. 

And if that’s so, maybe…

He wets his lips. “Maybe,” he says, then takes a breath, his eyes never leaving his boyfriend’s. “Maybe we should talk about maybe going on the record sometime.”

The hand in his tightens, and he squeezes back, suddenly not scared at all.

v.

“When your opponent’s acting up like that, how do you focus on your own game?”

He grins, screwing the lid of his water bottle back on. “Well, I’ve had a couple days to get ready, and it’s not like everyone doesn’t know that Fabio can be, well, Fabio. I was prepared.”

The reporter persists. “But when he was calling the umpire a water buffalo, don’t you just get distracted and go, what is this guy’s problem?”

“He called the umpire a water buffalo?” he asks, diverted. “I missed that.”

The rest of the presser chuckles. 

“Seriously, though, it’s Fabio,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “He’s got a dangerous game. I need to keep all my attention focused on his game, and not on anything he might be saying. You know, that’s his problem. I’ve just got to keep my game working.”

“Do you think he should be fined?” another reporter asks.

“That’s up to the ATP. I just focus on the tennis.”

“Do you have any tips for anyone else who has to play him?” 

He grins again. “You won’t persuade me to give up my secrets.” He taps his finger on the table. “Honestly, as my stepson was telling me yesterday, if you take a deep breath and count to ten, a lot of frustration just melts away.”

“Did the fact that you were able to get a lot of free points off your serve help you in set 4?” somebody asks, and then thankfully they’re back to actual tennis questions and not trying to psychoanalyse Fognini, which he is by no means qualified to do.

Afterwards, he’s doing a one-on-one with a magazine reporter. “I didn’t know you had a stepson,” the reporter says, small talk leavened with a mild dose of interest.

“Yeah,” he says, smiling as he always does at the thought of Ricky. “He’s five. He’s learning about anger management in kindergarten, though of course they’re not calling it that.”

“I imagine you didn’t let him watch today’s match,” she says, playfully. (Among other things, Fabio had employed a few choice words that reached the microphones.)

He laughs. “Oh, he knows that tennis players sometimes use bad words. But he lives in New York, so Tony won’t have let him get up this early. He’ll show him highlights later.”

“Tony…” she says.

“His dad. My fiancé.”

He’s been single most of his pro career. Too busy for a relationship, too busy for anything except travelling from Challenger to Challenger, desperately trying to earn enough money to make ends meet. And when he broke through to tour level, after that magic run in Cincy one year, he was too intent on shoring up his ranking to _stay_ there.

But then he’d met Tony one year at the US Open, introduced by mutual friends, and fallen in love. And Tony had come with a curly-headed 18-month-old moppet named Ricky. Before he knew it, he was not only someone’s boyfriend, but someone’s papa. 

He’s managed to strike the reporter momentarily speechless – no small feat – so he smiles and adds, “Ricky’s really looking forward to the US Open this year, because we’ve promised him that if he’s good and feeds the cat every day, he can come to some of my matches, if they’re not too late on a school night.”

His family is the best thing that’s ever happened to him. Sure, it’s going to be a little inconvenient for a month or two with the press, but it should blow over by August. And then he’ll have a five-year-old superfan in his box, probably with a homemade “Go Papa!” sign, and a tendency (so Tony tells him) to sigh melodramatically whenever he fails to convert a break point. 

He only has a few more years left on tour, but he can’t imagine anything better than having his family by his side. And today is what’s going to make that possible.

He grins at the reporter again. “Any questions?”

vi.

It’s his first players’ party on the main tour, and he’s pretty excited about it. Though of course he’s trying to play it cool, because he’s 18 now, he’s not a kid any more, he can be cool about this, he really can.

Someone collars him on the red carpet for one of those “either/or” lightning question rounds. He grins his way through “steak or sushi, grass or clay, summer or winter, London or New York”, and a whole list of other questions, too fast to remember.

Then the interviewer smiles up at him. “Are you planning to dance tonight?”

He gestures down at his feet. “I brought my dancing shoes!”

“Anyone in particular you’re hoping to dance with?” She doesn’t let him answer before hurrying on, “Who do you think is the prettiest girl in the WTA?”

“Mm,” he says, tilting his head to one side, mulling it over. “Taylor, I think. Or Laura.” Then he grins. “But that’s not really my area.”

He thinks she’s missed it for a moment, and then her eyes widen slightly and she says, mock-playfully, “Who’s the prettiest boy in the ATP, then?”

“Kyrgios,” he says, immediately, without pausing. “Or Herbert. But Sock’s pretty fine too. And Lokoli. Oh, and Dimitrov, of course.”

“Not you?” she asks.

“Well, I leave that to other people to decide,” he says, laughing, pretending to smooth down his jacket.

“Go dance,” she says, waving towards the entrance. “Save some cute boys for me.”

“No promises,” he shoots back, and grins at the cameras.

vii.

“That better not be going on Twitter,” his uncle says, severely, when he wakes up to find a phone pointed at his face.

It’s an awesome picture – there’s no drool, he’s not a cruel person, but his uncle manages to sleep with the most hilarious grumpy expression on his face, and this simply has to be shared. “I’m making no promises,” he says, already composing a tweet in his head.

“This is your fault,” his uncle says, to his PR manager across the airplane aisle. “You should have changed the password when he first started this photography thing.”

The PR manager shrugs his shoulders, as if to say, _you try stopping him from doing things_. Which, to be fair, his uncle is usually pretty good at, but not in these last few months. Not now. Not when every tournament is full of “last times”, and every match is one step closer to the last one.

Most of his pictures are innocuous. His racquets, neat and mute. The morning sky through a gap in his hotel curtains. His uncle playing cards and giving his physio a dirty look. His fingers, covered in clay and frayed tape. The net with a ball stuck in it, the ocean at dusk, the chaos of the locker room on the first day of a Slam.

But gradually, his daily picture begins to sometimes be slightly different.

His physio, hands on hips, with a supremely unimpressed look on his face. His physio, laughing, head thrown back and throat bared. His physio, dozing curled up on a player’s lounge couch, his face open and vulnerable, his eyelashes long. His physio, head bent, looking at a blister on his hand, his expression full of concentration.

He alternates these pictures with other, innocent ones. He’s not stupid. 

His fans love the photos. The locker-room ones are especially popular – Berdych with a towel around his waist; Thiem looking for a missing shoe, while behind his back Gulbis is holding it and grinning; the complete mess that Paire leaves strewn about; Fognini chatting with Almagro, caught in the middle of a particularly expansive gesticulation; Monfils stretching, the muscles rippling under his skin – but whatever he posts, they enjoy. He’s not sure if he’s beginning to get good at the photography, or if they’d like the photos even if they were blurry and badly composed, but he keeps trying to improve. He’s a competitive guy.

“Are you taking a picture of me?” his physio asks, without turning to look, as he stretches up to the top shelf of the closet, where someone has inexplicably tossed the tie he needs for the photoshoot today. The stretch pulls his shirt up, and there’s a gap of tanned skin between it and his shorts, dipping low. 

“Yes,” he says, unapologetic.

He doesn’t post that one, though. He posts a picture of the two of them reflected in the mirror, as his physio’s clever fingers tie his tie properly (his own efforts having been deemed unacceptable). Then he sets his phone down and kisses him, drawing him close.

They ask him about the photos in press, but he just shrugs and grins. “Is something I like,” he says. “I am not trying to take your job,” he tells his favourite photographer, later, but she just laughs and pats him on the shoulder, smiling.

After the Roland Garros final, he hesitates between two photos – one of his shoes, covered in clay, sitting mute on the baseline of Philippe Chatrier, and one of his hand, resting as if in benediction on the lip of the Coupe des Mousquetaires. In the end, he posts them both.

Every interview now is about either his legacy or his future. He smiles, the way he always has, and tries to be patient. He posts a picture, once, of the ravenous faces of the press room, fair return for all the hundreds of hours and millions of pictures he’s given them over the years.

Most people aren’t sure why he’s playing through Wimbledon. Surely retiring after Roland Garros would have been the best choice, they whisper, when they think he can’t hear. But Wimbledon is the one he’s always loved best, in his heart of hearts, and he thinks he has one final push in him. His physio’s hands work their magic, and he steels himself for one last try.

He keeps taking the pictures along the way.

Kyrgios in a quiet moment, colouring stark against his white kit, eyes closed in meditation. His physio, balancing a racquet on his index finger. Wawrinka on his phone, with Paire sneaking up behind him. His physio, cooking, in bare feet. Dimitrov crooning along to the song on his iPod. His physio prostrate on the grass, laughing, the ball he’s just let into the goal lying incriminatingly behind him.

He cries on court when he wins the title, and he knows that will be the picture in all the newspapers tomorrow. But that doesn’t mean he can’t contribute one last picture of his own.

His team lingers with him on Centre Court, long after all the spectators have gone home. He looks around at the empty seats, feels the worn grass underfoot, closes his eyes and tries to memorise this feeling, joy and exhaustion and victory and loss all at once.

His physio doesn’t say anything, just curls his fingers around his wrist, solid and grounding.

“Come here and hold this,” he says, opening his eyes, already reaching into his pocket for his phone. When his physio looks up at him, arms full of trophy, eyebrows arched with a silent question, he kisses him, slow and steady, fierce and sure.

It’s a blurry picture. He was busy kissing his physio, his partner, the man he loves. He didn’t have time to fix the composition, or get the lighting just right, or put the two of them in the most effective quadrants of the photo. The back of his boyfriend’s head is cut off, and the trophy in his arms is more of a gold gleam than anything very clear. 

He posts it anyway, then logs off Twitter.

In the morning, he posts a photo of his boyfriend glaring sleepily at him over toast.

~


End file.
